Pirates in Alameda? In the bay? I could hardly believe it. Granted, it had been a long time since I helped Captain Morgan defeat the Spanish Armada, but I still had moxie. The psychiatrist said something like that when I was in the hospital. Or was it that a prison on Devil's Island? I couldn't remember it quite right. That's what too much acid does to your brain. Don't worry, I learned my lesson. I stay away from the hard stuff. That's why I never take the pills in the orange bottles anymore. I feel so much better now, especially after a few beers or a joint. I have to hustle a bit to get enough dough for that, but I have a good system that gets me enough to keep keepin' on. The key, I've found is to always be on the move. I'm a nomad, moving between hunting grounds. It makes it harder for bad guys to track me down, and whenever I show up in a place I haven't been in for a while, the folks there are happy to see me.
I play a mean harmonica. It's easy to carry and cheap, so I don't worry about it getting lost or broken. As a matter of fact, the few times I was in the county slammer, the guards let me keep it because they liked my music. It's true what some old dead guy said: music soothes the savage beast, and that will stop him from giving you a hard time. Plus, it's easier than having to dish out a beatdown, though I've been forced into that situation a few times. It's not fun. If you're going to fight, have a weapon so it ain't fair for the other guy. Anyhow, in the pokey and the loony bin, I forget which, some guy called me an armchair admiral, on account of my many opinions and the fact that I spent a few years as a sailor in the Merchant Marine. I still love the sea, though it's been years since I've been on a boat or even gone swimming.
This piracy business though, it really stuck in my craw. I just couldn't stop thinking about it. It was time to take action. I saved up my money for a few weeks and bought a baseball bat, a hunting knife, and a heavy-duty slingshot. A gun would have been better, but I couldn't afford that, and anyway if I got arrested with it or shot somebody, I'd be in a hell of tight spot. Plus the ammo for the slingshot was free. Using rocks gave the whole affair a nice Old Testament feel. My thinking was at a minimum I needed a ranged and a melee weapon, plus a back-up in case they got in close. Let the crooks shoot at me, if it comes to that. Most of them couldn't hit a barn door if they were holding the handle, or so I gathered from reading the police blotter. I'm not a man of letters by any means, but I do read a lot. Take it from me: most crooks are dumb and cowardly. Put up a good fight, and nine times out of ten, you'll come out on top.
From reading the police blotter, it seemed the modus operandi of the thieves was to strike at night and ransack boats that were tied up. That made things easier, as I wouldn't to paddle out into the bay in the hopes of running into urban corsairs by sheer luck. One thing's for sure: I'd be doing something more useful than carving another hobo nickel, though I admit I'm still proud of the time I turned old Thomas Jefferson's mug into a grim reaper skull. It's a cheap hobby, and you can sell those suckers for a pretty penny, pun intended. I spent the next few weeks hanging out at the docks on Alameda. I was surprised to learn that some people lived on the boats as the rent was cheaper. Sometimes I'd tell them that living on the street is even cheaper than a boat, but they couldn't tell if I was joking or not. Anyway, the important thing is that enough people knew my name and face and wouldn't get suspicious if they saw me milling around that place at night.
I never offered to be a one-man neighborhood watch; I just went and did it. I never stayed in the same place for long. I'd smoke a cigarette real slow to let anyone else snooping around that they weren't alone. Trust me, the human eye can see the glowing tip of a red cigarette from far away at night. Confrontation was the last thing I wanted. I kept up my night patrol for a few weeks, and in that time, there were no crimes at the docks in my domain. I was getting bored and needed a new adventure. There was a kayak rental place nearby, and I cooked up the idea of paddling to Alcatraz. It'd be about a 22-mile round trip, but there were islands I could rest at along the way. At two miles per hour, it'd be about 11 hours of paddling time. My plan was to make landfall late at night, sneak inside the prison, then join up with a tour group when the place opened. If possible, I'd steal a wristband or hand stamp from the admissions office. I always wanted to visit Alcatraz, but the cost of a ticket was too much for me. I figured that on account of my recent community service, I had earned myself a quick vacation.
My next port of call was the kayak place. I picked the one with a friendly hippy dude. When I showed him one of my hobo nickels, he wanted to buy it, but I said I'd trade it for a no-strings attached kayak rental. He seemed suspicious, but I gave him my word of honor that I would bring it back undamaged. What would hobo do with a kayak anyway, I asked him. He gave me a suspicious look, but at last agreed. I told if I wasn't back in three days, something went wrong. I didn't take much on my journey. Aside from the clothes on my back and a lifejacket, all I brought was just a knife, multitool, space blanket, and boonie hat. I wasn't worried about sharks because the biggest ones in the bay are leopard sharks, and they stay away from people. My route stayed close to shore so I could bail out and swim to safety if I had to. The morning I set out, I had a big breakfast at a greasy spoon. The sea called to me.
The journey to the island was easier than I expected. I decided to make the last leg of the journey after sunrise in case something went wrong. That upped my chances of survival in case I had to bail. I made it to the island well before noon. I started sneaking around the perimeter for any way in. I saw a movie when I was a kid about how some guys snuck into Alcatraz by swimming up a drainpipe, but that wasn't an option for me. I stashed my kayak in a safe place and looked for a way up. There are steep hills all around the island, but they weren't too hard to climb. When I got to the main building, I used my multitool to pry open a door, and bam, I was in like Flint. I stalked quietly through the cell block and marveled at the tiers. Off in the distance, I heard a tour guide. I crept slowly in that direction. It was surprisingly easy to blend in at the back of it. The tour was fascinating in more ways than one for me, as I had been a prisoner for real. When it ended, I made my way back to my kayak and began the journey to the first rest stop at Treasure Island. Some looky-loo on the tour boat saw me, and soon enough, I got a free tow to shore.
I told the cops the whole truth about what happened and explained I still needed to return the hippy's kayak. To my great surprise, they took me and the kayak back to the rental place. They still arrested and fined me, but I was able to haggle my way out of it with another hobo nickel. All's well that ends well, I guess.
"All that really happened?" asked the extra scruffy hobo warming his hands over the trash barrel fire.
If I'm lyin', I'm dyin', I say with a laugh.
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